How Soon is Now?
by AerrowLover
Summary: A revolution of a biblical style. (AU) In a final, suicidal attempt by the rebels to fight for humanity, Miles Matheson will have to walk to Philly and kill his best friend. But his best friend is no longer the person he knew. When it's a case of the better the devil you know, Miles isn't even sure what to believe anymore. (Demons, drama and death. This is it, the apocalypse. )
1. Holy Dread

**A/N Hello my dearest darlings. What can I say, apparently I'm entering the writing business again. Oh dear. This time around it's for the wonderful programme that is NBC's Revolution. I blame tumblr and the Rev fandom there for this, I really do. Also Milroe, damn them to Hades.**

**Just a heads up for a few things: this is an AU fic which is probably obvious. However, I have gone back to my preferred option of interlinking actual script into my writing. Memories are in italics, with anything that is actually canon beginning with a '/'. Anything else is done by me, myself and I only.**

**Second point; this is the big one - this is also a sort of mash up/crossover with Supernatural (oh Kripke) but the reason I haven't posted this into the crossover section is because quite frankly this is only very loosely related to Supernatural. There is no Sam, no Dean, no magic or angels. I have only borrowed demons and even then that's where it stops. If people think it would be better for me to move this to another forum, then just drop me a line via a message or a review and I'll see if I can move it. Personally I really would rather not, but if it makes life easier for the readers then I'm for it.**

**I swear I suffer from Milroe feelings to a terrible extent.**

**Warnings: Swearing. Oh yes, there will be swearing. And sass, because hey - there be Miles Matheson about. Also violence, blood, EMOTIONAL TRAUMA because I am a horrible person and death. I'm the Angst Queen for a reason. Deal.**

**Disclaimer: I sadly do not own Revolution, Supernatural, the characters of either show and nor do I own Billy Burke and David Lyons; the wonderful talented actors that they are. Lyrics belong to A Perfect Circle's 'Counting Bodies Like Sheep (to the rhythm of the war drum)'.**

**And with that, let's rock and roll. Lights, camera - and scene.**

* * *

**How soon is now?**

_Don't fret precious, I'm here._  
_Step away from the window, go back to sleep._  
_Safe from pain and truth and choice_  
_And other poison devils_  
_See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do…_

* * *

He somehow manages to walk inside intact, albeit with a burning pain at the side of his head and a beautiful collection of bruised ribs. He shakes his head once or twice in an attempt to fix his shaky vision. It feels like he is trying to clear his head. That attempt, however, fails.

In this tent, everything seems so… so similar. So achingly familiar. The desks piled high with hastily scribbled notes and maps. The ever present bottles. One is half empty – or is it half full, he asks himself with a snort – and the other is nearly finished. Nearly drained completely, much like the pacing figure in front of him.

Miles tries to very hard not to keep staring at the two glasses perched on the main desk. For some reason he cares not to dwell on, it causes his heart to sink just that little bit further. He did not think it to be possible, not after what has happened and what he has had to come to terms with, but it is.

He is here now, everything was going according to plan. And the onus was on him to fully carry out his task. He had sworn he would do it; that he could do it. So many are depending on him. Miles knew he could not allow his own delirious thoughts and emotions to get in the way. Not this time. Too much was at stake now, of that he was certain.

* * *

_"…It has to be done. It has to be done now."_

_Nods of agreement. No one pauses to think on what exactly it is they are agreeing with._

_(He has seen this before, many years ago. When people are afraid and find someone that tells them what to do, they simply seem to fall to their knees and thank God for it.)_

_No one pauses to think about the death they are plotting._

_He doesn't like to think like this. He used to be able to deal; used to be able to shut down his emotions and cut himself off. It was useful – no, it was essential in his old job._

_But now? Not so much._

_Maybe it was because he was now a sort of honorary father as well as the recently discovered uncle to Charlie. Maybe because he had spent so much time with her now, watching her laugh and smile and cry. He was fiercely protective of her, deeply caring and he knew that he changed with her. And with Nora too, to a certain extent._

_But this? This was different._

_Yet he seems to be the only one in this dingy little backroom full of lost and desperate souls that thinks so._

_"They are growing in numbers every day now. We take out the leader, we disrupt everything. All their plans, all their schemes."_

_No one seems to want to query this. It does make sense, he thinks, but dig a little deeper and you want to ask a single, solemn question – are 'they' the Militia of humans, or the Militia of demons?_

_Perhaps one or the other. Perhaps both. Perhaps he means everything and everyone that targets the rebels, the hunters; those that wreck chaos and destruction on humanity._

_He knows all too well what destruction occurs on a daily basis outside. Just like he is aware of snide comments and barbed looks issued from narrowed eyes. Those are from the people that blame him. Say that he was a turncoat once, could be one again if given the chance. That he is doing this all for himself. Doesn't care about saving lives, it is all about making himself sleep better at night._

_The main topic of the whispers however is this – if had hadn't have failed twice, maybe they would not be stuck in this situation now._

* * *

The pacing stops suddenly at the bottles and glasses and Miles blinks, the silence pulling him back from the jumbled mess of thoughts in his head. The clink of glass on glass seems louder than what it should be. He swallows, trying to ignore the pain that is caused by a bruised neck. He doesn't know what to do with his hands – if he just lets his arms hang at his sides he will appear ill at ease and feel relaxed. Miles cannot allow himself to relax. Not here. And it is not even because of the danger and risk of serious violence.

It's because… (No, not thinking about that. Not now. Focus, Miles. Focus. Stop being weak and think about those who are relying on you. Think of Charlie. How her eyes flashed and her arms folded as she argued about coming with him. How she stuck her bottom lip out in a determined (petulant?) stance that reminded him of how young she really was.)

It's too easy to want to feel relaxed. Memories cloud his alert military train of thought. He breathes slowly. Tries to calm down his racing heart and mind. He idly wonders how long it will take for him to clean all the fresh blood off his sword. Shifts his weight from one foot the another as he wonders about how all this will play out.

Miles can feel the pair of eyes burning into him. His skin feels as though it is on fire, but he puts it down to the dull throbbing courtesy of a few clenched fists. How long will it take for someone to find the bodies, he ponders. He has about fifteen minutes, tops, before he will be discovered.

The silence is eating him alive and what is more, the figure before him knows it. Miles swallows again, feeling as though he is literally swallowing his pride and grits his teeth against the pain.

"Great hospitality here," he remarks, tilting his head to the side. Seeks out those eyes. Wants to be the one that connects first. "I mean, I get a welcome party for starters. Now here you are, pouring me a drink. You're really too kind." He can almost taste the sarcasm dripping from his lips. Almost. He can certainly taste the rough and tangy flavour of blood.

The sharp, cold blue eyes of the other man fall on him as the bottle (now empty) is idly tossed to the floor, the loud crash ringing in Miles' ears. He forces himself to look on the face of the one he loved and cared for as a brother. There is an initial flash of rage on that face before a careless long smirk draws itself across lips.

"Ah, Matheson. Still the same sarcastic bastard as always," the words are said in a drawl, the voice continuing a subtle blend of harshness and hoarseness that sends a lone shiver down Miles' spine. It's a voice he knows well – all too well – but it has been twisted into a ghostly parody of itself.

(He misses hearing that voice. And he hates himself for doing so.)

He gives a loose shrug of the shoulders, ignoring the twinge of pain the movement causes.

"You know me, I'd hate to disappoint."

His reply manages to prise out a hoarse chuckle. He watches as a glass is drained, duly replenished and drained dry once more.

* * *

_/_

_A simultaneous feeling of relief and fear – he has found him but in what state?_

_"Been looking for you. What are you doing?" His words tumble out as his sharp eyes sweep the scene before him. It doesn't look good. At all._

_Miles takes a few slow steps forward, and forces himself to remain calm and for his face to stay clear._

_Those familiar blue eyes are red and swollen. "Uh... I... I was just having a little family dinner." Slurred and broken. A wild sweeping gesture._

_And then Miles sees it -_

_"Okay... Come on Bass. Let's go." He says it calmly enough; it sounds almost rushed and insincere, but inside his heart is thumping. He starts to turn away in an effort to encourage the younger man to follow – or does he turn because he cannot bear to look at the shattered wreck of man that is his best friend and brother, knowing that there is nothing he can do for him?_

_The sound of ragged breathing punctured by a lone sob is simply agonising to hear. Miles cannot block the sound, especially when he remembers what he saw so vividly._

_/_

* * *

The man before him sets the now empty glass down and stares at him with a complete look of bare curiosity. The smirk grows just that tad more pronounced and – if at all possible – colder. Miles has the uncomfortable feeling that even his very thoughts are being closely scrutinised, like the inside of him was being stripped and paraded. There is another chuckle.

"I have to admit, I didn't think you were stupid enough to show your face here again," he drawls almost lazily as he walks slowly over towards Miles. Hands neatly clasped behind his back as always. "But having said that, it is you. You always did let your heart rule your head in the end."

"Actually, I prefer to be labelled as spontaneous; sounds less clichéd ." Miles retorts quickly, for he does not wish to dwell too deeply on that last comment. He doesn't want to see where his thoughts will take him.

A snatch of laugher, but it rings hollow. Miles notices – not for the first time, but he chooses not to remember that fact – the dark smudges under those (dead?) blue eyes. The face looks thinner, gaunter maybe.

He refuses to allow his gaze to linger on the mess of dark blonde curls. He tilts his chin up as he can feel the stifling tension in the tent increase.

"You're a fucking bundle of clichés, you know that?" General Monroe finally pauses before Miles, wearing a lurid look of nostalgia. His eyes narrow and his lips purse together. "The classic flawed hero. The brother. The lover. The fallen man seeking redemption." The frown deepens and a tone of quiet rage creeps out. "Is that why you decided to pop by for a visit?"

The atmosphere is cold and dark and Miles fights back a shiver. Maybe twelve minutes left, now. He doesn't want to talk anymore. Doesn't want to hear anymore. Hates having to look at what Monroe has become.

"You're talking such bullshit, you know that?" Miles says, allowing for a frozen smirk of his own. He rolls his eyes, sending out a hidden invitation of a call to arms to the other.

Bass had always been the better of the two of them when it came to reading people and sussing out their thoughts. It had helped them for years and was clearly still useful now. Those damn dead eyes are drilling holes into him but the other man just stands so still and totally at ease. Miles has a horrible sinking feeling that his every word and action has simply been predicted already.

(Why must his chest constrain just that little bit more when -)

(Just keep talking. Buy yourself more time. This has to work. It must work.)

"I didn't know you analysed novels in your spare time. No wonder you're losing this war. You're more interested in Literature."

The fist was expected and it does hit him hard but the pain hits him harder. He staggers and before he can retaliate another punch is thrown. And another and another and another –

"Did you really think your little plan was going to work? Did you think you could just walk in here and sass and bitch?" Monroe shouts, breathing heavily. He withdraws his fists and runs a hand through his hair. The hand appears to shake for the briefest of seconds before it resumes its iron like fervour. Something flickers across Monroe's eyes and his lips tighten his anger.

Miles coughs several times, idly dragging a few fingers across his face to wipe away the fresh blood. Picking himself up warily, he clenches his own fists and thrusts his face forward. His eyes boldly glare at the younger man.

"Well, seems to have worked so far," he shrugs, allowing his mouth to take charge as he mentally runs through what he has at his disposal. And of course, the grand master plan. The small bag at his side still seems to be in one piece, thankfully.

Ten minutes.

The silence grows again, expanding and consuming, Miles almost wishes that he was punched again, because then he could have an excuse to break this uneasy stalemate and give into mindless rage and violence and not be stuck with thoughts, memories and a broken heart.

He swallows and he feels the seconds slip away from his grasp. He can feel the coldness of his sword at his side and wonders why he hasn't armed himself with it yet.

Monroe smirks; that fucking long drawn out smirk that crawls across his lips and Miles doesn't know whether to reach out and throttle the man because it's Monroe or… Or to rolls his eyes in exasperation because it's Bass.

That is the problem now, though. He no longer knows the identity of the man before him and it tears him apart.

* * *

_"I'll do it," even as the words leave his mouth he feels a mixture of regret and determination and he isn't quite sure which feeling will triumph. All eyes are drawn to him and Miles can feel Nora tense beside him. He doesn't look at her. Nor does he look at Charlie, but he knows she will be staring at him open mouthed._

_The leader looks at him long and hard before slowly nodding. "You sure?" He knows Miles is probably the one person here that could take on the General from a mixture of talent, experience and knowledge of how the other fights. "You know it's not just him you're taking on, right?"_

_Miles fights the urge to roll his eyes. He can feel Nora place a hand against his sleeve, probably gently warning him not to lose his temper here, not when everyone is suffering from tattered and frayed nerves already._

_"I know that," he forces himself to rein in on the sharpness of his words, but the leader still raises an eyebrow. "I'm doing it. No offense, but none of you lot," here he breaks off to gesture at the group of rebels closest to him, "can do it. You'll be killed before you could even blink." (Besides, I have history on my side. I know what to do. I know how this works.)_

_Some of the rebels stir, not liking his tone or his implications whilst others look relieved at the idea that they don't have to go and that it's Miles Matheson that is volunteering to go on this suicide run._

_"Very well, you want the job, you have it." The leader says calmly, and there is a sudden outbreak of whispering. The hisses echo in Miles' ears. Nora's hand tightens on his arm. She knows him all too well. He still refuses to look at Charlie._

_He nods and turns to leave the room – he isn't totally sure why, but he needs to get out and be alone, he's being smothered in here – but the leader isn't finished with him yet, and raises a hand to stop him._

_"One thing, Matheson," eyes narrow, "you take this up, you carry it through. Understand? Too much is at stake here."_

_Again, Miles fights an overwhelming urge to grab the man's shoulders._

_"I said I'm doing it. Or didn't you hear me the first time?" No longer bothers to tone down the bite. He can almost imagine Nora closing her eyes._

_Damn he needs to get out of here now._

_He turns and looks at the crowd around him, daring them to meet his gaze and challenge his words. There are a few looks, but no one speaks. Charlie just stares, her green eyes pained and yet strangely hopeful. She has such faith and trust in him. She believes him to be the good guy, the one who will do the right thing._

_(I know how this works. I know how this ends.)_

_But in this apocalyptic fucked up world, everything is blurred and vague. What is the right thing to do these days? What is the definition of the good guy? Well, whatever it is, Miles knows it cannot be him. He will let Charlie continue to believe in her dream however. She needs hope during these dark days. They all do._

_The thing is, he hopes for something a lot different compared to the others._

* * *

"You should have killed me when you had the chance, you know."

"I know."

"Oh wait, when you had the chances. Heck of a lot of opportunities to get me off the scene, none of which were taken," Monroe stares at him, hands back to being clasped behind his back. He tilts his hand to one side, considering. "How do you screw that?" A chuckle as the words leave his lips. Little shake of the head.

"I know." Miles all but growls, gritting his teeth together in anger. Or is it pain? A sharp recognition of the truth through the excuses and lies? A hand drops towards the sheath of his sword. His fingers fumble with the clasp of the bag.

It's time. They both know it. This has to be; it has to happen.

(Damn bastard knows what to say to hurt me. Why would you say that? Why would you make me remember? Why can I not just think of you as a thing to be disposed of and left to rot and to be forgotten? Why do I have to remember you as you were?)

"Seems to me like you don't have the heart for this," Monroe continues, giving a shrug. Light glints off the buttons on his blazer. His tone is patronising and sarcastic and Miles is torn between lunging forwards right there or waiting to see what other words will be used at weapons and throw at him with reckless abandon. Monroe is enjoying this, Miles realises. Enjoying this confrontation far too much. It's another painful reminder of why he is here and what he must do.

"Yeah well, you're wrong about that," Miles snaps back, but even to his own ears his voice sounds weak. Monroe laughs, a mocking echo that bounces off the fabric walls.

"Come on Miles! Stop lying to yourself. You and I both know the truth." Monroe spins around , turning his back on the hunter. Prey should never expose themselves to such vulnerability, but Monroe is confident enough to know that Miles is still debating with himself. Knows that he has all the time in the world right now at his disposal. And he plans on using every second that he has to simply torture the man.

(Damn it; look at him. Focus on that. Shove every other thought out of your mind. He's making this too easy for you. Think of him as a poisoned thing, nothing more.)

Miles wonders why Monroe is playing this game. Such behaviour only emphasises what he now is and should – Miles grits his teeth again here – should only serve to harden Miles' resolve to kill him.

So why is it not working? Monroe's words and actions are so carefully co-ordinated that Miles cannot think straight. Mocking and sarcastic words accompanied by violent actions are sprinkled with truth and memories that keep clouding his judgement. Miles knew that he would be up against it when he came here, but perhaps he wasn't as fully prepared and ready as he had previously thought.

He had sworn blind to the rag tag bunch of rebels that he could do this. Pushed away Nora when she had searched him out to talk to him. Promised Charlie that he would sort this mess out once and for all. He had to deliver.

* * *

_/_

_Another shaking sob racks the distressed man's frame. Miles longs to reach over and wrap him in his arms, but he is too hesitant about his friend's state of mind. His actions –if he moves too quickly- might be misinterpreted and hell knows what could happen. He knows he has to take this one slowly._

_"You know, I always thought I'd be dead by now." Bass mutters with thick slurs, gesturing again with the barely half filled bottle. He shakes his head, light catching the remnants of tears on his face. "I mean, that's logical right? High risk gig, two tours in Iraq. My folks... My little sisters..." here his voice catches and breaks. Miles feels his heart sink and break as he slowly begins to walk over. Another muffled sob._

_"On the way to a freakin' Harry Potter movie, one drunk driver later they're scraping them off the ground. How do you screw that?" Bass asks desperately, swollen blue eyes searching and finding Miles. He sounds so lost and broken as he takes carelessly takes another drink._

_Miles sits next to his brother. He's close enough to smell the alcohol and close enough that if he wanted to, he could drape an arm around the man. He swallows, thinking carefully about what to say. Bass is clearly wanting an answer – he needs to hear something. Needs something to cling to._

_"You don't... I mean... I don't know." Miles utters, and the truth is he really does have no idea why such horrible, heart-breaking events happen from out of the blue. He can still see the giggling golden duo of Bass' baby sisters. They worshipped the ground he walked on and he adored them. Miles had always joked that Bass would make the better father out of the two of them, but only once he had stopped believing that he was the Casanova of this century._

_They had been so damn excited about seeing the midnight showing of that film._

_Miles can all too clearly still remember hearing the howl that was torn from his best friend after Bass answered his phone and heard the voice of a sympathetic doctor._

_"Should have been me."_

_"Hey come on, man." Miles is startled by the words and his heart begins to pound. He's surprised it hasn't successfully smashed through his ribs already. Miles reaches out and firmly grabs the bottle from Bass' shaking hand. "That's enough." Whether he means the drinking or the train of thought, he isn't too sure._

_Bass slowly,wordlessly, shakes his head from side to side. He points at the sad and sorry sight before them both. Every breath is ragged and he seems so dazed and lost. He doesn't look at Miles, who feels a horrible sensation in the pit of his stomach._

_(This can't be happening. What the hell do I do?)_

_Miles is startled for a second time as Bass suddenly gasps, his body wrenching with a single cry. He watches as the other man rubs his hand across his face and his hair._

_"I got nothing left," Bass chokes out hoarsely, and then perhaps it is then that the full realisation of what has happened violently hits him. For he shakes and mutters "I got... I got nothing.. . left." Then he fully gives into his grief and cries, burying his head into his arm. Miles has to look away, an unbearable and painful lump forming in his throat._

_But then he forces himself to turn and face his brother. Miles may not be the most socially adept man around and the very idea of offering comfort and being reassuring makes him feel uneasy. But this is a whole different ball game. This is Bass. The man that many of their teachers in high school and friends joked about being his twin. And this is a broken, crippled best friend who Miles cannot bear to lose._

_So he clears his throat and suddenly discovers what he needs – and wants – to say._

_"Well, you got me." He says it calmly, gently, and with total conviction. Because it is nothing but the truth._

_Bass lifts his head and blearily looks at his best friend. There is a moment where their eyes connect and the smell of alcohol and despair and the sight of freshly buried graves just seem to fade away. Because they both realise that they have each other's backs. They do have each other._

_Bass laughs in anguish, but there is a hint of actual, normal Bass exasperation too. As if to say 'oh damn it, he says I've got him. We're going to be that old married couple. We'll bicker over wallpaper and the news and we'll put up with each other's drunken habits.' (Miles sings like a rocker whereas Bass becomes unbearably clingy; Miles says he wraps his arms around (him) like a python. Bass will always retort back by saying Miles sings like Chad Kroeger and hey, hey, hey, does he want to be a rockstar? Needless to say, that does not go done well. Needless to say, they are both a sad and sorry sight in the morning.)_

_So Bass chuckles and drags a hand across his face again. His hand no longer shakes. Miles watches._

_"I mean, what the hell would I be without you? " he says, his own voice breaking slightly because hell it's the truth. They've been together for so long – Miles cannot remember a time when Bass wasn't there in his life. The other man looks at him, a few lone tears running down his face. Miles focuses on those swollen blue eyes and speaks gently, "We've been brothers our whole lives. Since we were kids." He pauses, as Bass swallows. Miles feels his heart beat faster as he says the next few words- he can't believe he has to say them; who would ever believe that they would have to say them-_

_He looks away. Looks ahead. Says those words firmly to disguise his own pain._

_"Bass, give me the gun before you do something stupid."_

_The brothers look at each other, Bass biting down hard on his lip and blinking away tears rapidly. He initially looks amazed, as if he cannot believe that Miles would know about the gun. That passes as he realises that Miles knows him, every inch and every thought. Of course he would know._

_Miles watches, fighting the urge to grab the gun, throw it away and wrap his arms around his best friend and hold him close. Tell him he'll always be there for him. That he will never let him go. That although he feels like his entire world has been taken from him and that he was nothing, he will make it through if Miles Matheson has anything to say about it. That Miles will be there to help him pick up all the pieces, even those tiny ones that are normally lost to the winds, and put them all together again._

_(But you have to be there, too. You are not leaving me, Sebastian Monroe. Not like this. Not if I can help it, brother.)_

_Bass chokes back a sob as his gaze drops down. Miles watches unblinkingly as the other man raises his arm and his gun – there is a brief, horrible heart stopping moment for Miles when Bass holds on to the gun for a second longer – and he hands it over to the older man. Miles takes it without looking and sets it on the grass, refusing to allow his gaze to wander there. Bass drops his head into his hands with a moan._

_This time Miles refuses to fight that previous urge. He reaches out with one arm and wraps it around his brother's shoulder and sure enough, Bass leans into him as if he is the only thing in the world he can depend on._

_I'll never let you go, Miles thinks as he tightens his grip. He doesn't know that Bass is thinking that if Miles should ever leave, he doesn't think he could live without him._

_/_

* * *

"You're just going to be the sentimental coward everyone knows you to be and run out of here to save your own ass," the hard mocking tones wash over him as his grip tightens over the small bottle in the bag. "You're weak, you know that, right? You act like some fucking antihero for those rebels. For your lovers," here the lips purse together, "for your little niece. She thinks the absolute world of you, doesn't she?"

"Don't you dare even say her name," Miles snaps back furiously. He can feel his whole body tighten like a spring, ready for the attack. He can ignore all the attacks on himself – hell, he knows he deserves most of it – but he will not allow even Charlie's very name to be used as a weapon against him. "She's not a part of this. Leave her out of it. Whatever hatred you have, whatever bitterness you feel, take it out on me, you son of a bitch." He almost snarls as he speaks and takes a step forward. His own anger and hurt and hatred and bitterness are starting to rise. He doesn't know for how long he can contain it.

Monroe chuckles, his eyes flashing with barely suppressed rage. Probably does not like how Miles fights back and yet doesn't go for the kill. Miles realises that he has allowed himself to be tricked and trapped by reacting so strongly to the taunts. Oh well. Too late now to do anything about it.

"That's it Matheson, let it out. Let it all out," Monroe drawls, amused. He too takes a step forward, his face close to Miles' own. The older man can see too clearly, now that the Monroe is so close, the darkness of the bruises under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. His face is somewhat gaunter, Miles thinks. If he stares closely enough, he can just make out the faintest remains of burn marks dotted in a hazy manner across his neck.

(What has happened to us, Bass? How have we ended up here? I would have put my life on the line for you, over and over again, just to keep you safe.)

(I hate that I failed. I'm sorry. So sorry.)

"Fuck you," he hisses as all other remarks die on his bloody lips. He is at once both furiously pumped on adrenaline and emotionally exhausted. He wants to speak again, to say something more meaningful, but the words just die in his throat.

"Ahh, so you actually care about dear little Charlotte. Have you promised her that you would protect her? Did you promise to always be there for her, that she would always have you for support?" an odd expression flickers. A hand dragged firmly through those messy curls. Cold eyes narrow.

Miles bites his lip furiously, steps forward and raises his sword – when had he pulled it out from its sheath? He cannot recall this happening – the tip of the blade lightly brushing the air in front of Monroe's uniform.

(Don't you dare. Don't you dare even use my own words against me. I meant everything I ever said to you.)

"She's my family. I would die for her. No one will ever say that to you." It's meant to sound firm and cold and uncaring but his heart sinks. His breathing hitches just that little bit more.

* * *

_"Miles! Miles, will you just stop!" Nora shouts angrily after him. He can hear her light footsteps break into a graceful run. At first he thinks of just walking on and ignoring her, but he knows her too well. She'll simply be damn persistent and will not back down. He'll have to face her at some stage. Unfortunately. He doesn't want to hear what she will say._

_So he stops, turns around and waits for her to catch up with him. She looks both concerned and frustrated which seems to be the look that she reserves especially for him these days._

_"Miles, are you serious about this-"_

_"Where's Charlie?" he interrupts. Perhaps he hopes to stem the oncoming tide for just that bit longer and well as being enquiring about his niece._

_Nora totally does not buy it, however. She raises a perfect eyebrow._

_"She's fine. She's with Gillian and the rest of that group. She wanted to come after you but I beat her to it. She isn't going to say what needs to be said to you."_

_"And that would be what, exactly? I don't have time for a girly heart to heart, Dr Phil." Now she looks confused and once again Miles is reminded about the age gap between them both. Well, that is for another day. Let's focus on the matter at hand._

_"It's… I'm worried," she blurts out after a moment's hesitation. Her arms are quickly folded across her chest as she stares directly at him._

_"Nora-" he starts, but she returns the earlier favour and cuts across him. He sighs._

_"Have you thought this one through, Miles? I mean, more than usual?" her sarcasm stings, because as always with Nora she hits her target head on. "You want to be part of the group that storms the headquarters and then you want to split off and take on Monroe yourself?"_

_Miles pretends to think, before nodding sharply. "Oh, you have me there. Guilty as charged." He knows he shouldn't be acting like this with her – she really is only trying to look out for him in her unique way – but he wants to be alone. Has to be alone. He shifts his weight from one foot the other, wondering if he can just walk away from her now._

_She must guess what he is thinking, for she narrows her eyes and takes a step forward. "Cut the crap, Miles. I know you. This brushing people off tactic of yours is getting old. I just want you, for once, to think about what you're doing."_

_That is when his mouth takes charge._

_"I have thought about this, Nora. Oh believe me, I have. You know what I have to do? I have to walk to Philly and kill my best friend," he throws his hands into the air in frustration as Nora looks on. Seeing him lose his self-control like this is unusual. Miles forces himself to breathe deeply._

_Nora's dark eyes soften and her whole stance relaxes slightly. "Miles," she says quietly, and he wishes he could shut his ears to the thick sympathy, "Miles, he isn't your best friend anymore. That isn't Bass. "_

_"I know," he sighs, and closes his eyes._

_"It hasn't been Bass for a long time."_

_"I know, Nora!" but the bite is no longer there and he soon finds himself leaning against the damp wall._

_"It looks like him, but it's not." Her whispers are meant to be soothing, but they seem to utterly destroy him. Yes, that's Nora. Truth in every bite._

_"But he's in there, Nora. Somewhere," he whispers back, and he can feel her light touch against his arm. There is nothing sensual about it, just comforting. He can hear her sigh beside him, and he opens his eyes._

_"You don't know that, Miles."_

_"Let's just add that to the list, why don't we," sarcasm bounces back into his voice and he's darn grateful for it, because he feared he would break down in front of her. And that is something he simply cannot do. "I just… I just want to believe it. The thought of him not being somewhere…" Miles trails off._

_She nods, a sad smile on her beautiful face. She doesn't speak, just tightens her grip on his skin._

_"Damn him to hell for letting this happen," he mutters as he rests his head against her shoulder. "And damn me to hell for not stopping it sooner."_

* * *

**FEELS FEST. I offer no apologies. **

**This was originally going to be a simply old fashioned oneshot but nope, that really has not happened at all. Never mind that I have uni exams in three weeks time. This badboy comes first. (It's sitting at twenty-one pages right now and I'm not done yet, holy shit.)**

**Like it or loath it, feel free to leave a review or drop me a line. I swear I don't bite. I'm too busy sobbing thanks to my Milroe feels. **


	2. Ashes to Ashes

**A/N: So here we go, darlings. Part two, as promised. Please see the previous chapter for warnings and disclaimers. **

**Many thanks to those that have reviewed, added this to their alerts or who have favourited. It really does mean so much to me. Thank you.**

**With that, let's picked up where we left off.**

* * *

Quite who attacked who, they were not sure. But somehow the fast and furious violent tango of a swordfight commenced. Miles finds himself having to defend more than attack, because Monroe is so fast and deadly accurate now that even he, Miles Matheson, is caught unawares. Unnatural speed and strength was always going to be a challenge to go up against. No wonder Nora badgered him. No wonder Charlie kept opening her mouth to say something, before closing it and shaking her head.

They both know that this is a passionate dance of death, with one of the spinning partners being required to die.

Miles no longer knows how long has left in this tent until he is discovered. Time is not important.

He brings his sword down sharply against that of Monroe's, and the two of them slam into the side of a desk, fighting to win the dual.

"You know what is so funny, Matheson?" Monroe says, as Miles throws his weight behind his sword. "Your Bass is all tucked away, right in here," he shakes his head from side to side, a manic grin on his face.

"Shut the hell up," Miles growls, but he has been run through by that fact and left injured more than what a sword ever could do. Of course, he has always had a feeling -a truly desperate, horrible feeling -that this was the case. He had hoped for it, too. Because then maybe, just maybe, he could somehow bring Bass back.

"It must simply kill you that you don't know how long I've been riding his ass for. You don't know what he did himself and what I made him do. Does that break your mushy little heart some more, Matheson?" several chuckles and a forceful shove. Miles nearly ends up flying backwards from the impact but manages to steady himself. They circle each other, every so often batting away the other's sword with a harsh clang.

"I said shut up, you son of a bitch!" Miles lunges at Monroe, who deftly twists his sword to deflect the blow. Miles smashes his sword down and receives a kick to the stomach in return. He gasps and fights the urge to double up in pain. Instead, he swings a fist towards Monroe and quickly changes direction at the last moment. Monroe, caught off guard, receives a violent punch to the head that causes him to stumble. Seizing the opportunity, Miles lunges forward and catches the other man on the face with his blade.

"Now, that's not very nice!" Monroe snaps, blood tricking down his cheek. "You're just destroying the fine packaging of your dear little buddy!" He straightens himself up, sword at the ready. He looks amused and furious and eerily inhuman all in one go.

Miles does not want to think about all that he is hearing. He doesn't want to fully acknowledge the fact that there may be truth behind these claims. He forces himself to breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. His ribs burn.

(God, Bass. I am sorry. So sorry.)

"Bless the man; saying he's sorry. Think you're a bit too late for that, Matheson!"

"Stay the hell out of my head!" Miles roars, trying to block out the strident and mocking tones. He hates the fact that he can be so easily read – and that's even before this twisted, ruthless and bitter _thing_ starts to rummage about in his mind. His thoughts are private, damn it.

"Make me!" Monroe challenges, and they are off again, swords clashing furiously. The air is thick with steel and rage.

* * *

_/_

_He watches the conflicting emotions run across the other man's face. He desperately fights to keep his own face a perfect blank mask. But his eyes must give everything away. He feels weary. Utterly exhausted. He does not want to do this; to say this._

_Not for the first time in his life has he to fight the overwhelming urge to say screw doing the right thing. He longs to drop this gun to the ground and step forwards and fling his arms open. He wants to embrace him and murmur about how much he has missed him. Of course he'll come back. Of course he will stay. Of course he will never leave again._

_Instead he sighs, dropping the gun just that little bit lower. Makes eye contact. Tries to see if the wonderfully sarcastic, clever, speaks three languages (two he picked on up tours of duty) and shoots like a pro old Bass is still at home somewhere. The old Bass that used to roll his eyes as he watched Miles struggle to complete his homework – not out of a lack of intelligence on his part, but patience. Miles simply cannot be bothered paying attention in class. Bass, on the other hand, can be a joker and comedian and yet still pull As and Bs out of his ass – before snatching the sheets away from him with a 'give it here, I'll do it.' The old Bass that, when very drunk, would need Miles to hold him upright as he stumbled and protested that he wasn't drunk and he didn't need Miles to be his knight in a beaten leather jacket, thanks very much. The old Bass that fought with him side by side in Iraq and who would sit quietly at his side when they got back home, knowing that what Miles needed was just company. The old Bass that had just stared in shock as he shot and killed men on the road. The old Bass that had made him promise, with tears in his eyes, that he would not let him be taken over. 'I'd rather die, Miles, than not be the one in control . Promise me that you'll never let that happen!'_

_So Miles looks. He strains his eyes and tries to steady his heart. But it's no use. Bass isn't there. Bass is gone._

_(I'm sorry, brother. So damn sorry.)_

_(Please, please be there.)_

_(Please come back to me.)_

_He has to listen to emotional words said in honeyed tones drip from Monroe's lips. Wants to believe them, too. Oh, he wants to believe in them so much. But he cannot fall for the lies. Not again._

"_You're not the same person," he says, in a tired voice. "You're too far gone. I see it now. –"_

_(I can see it all too fucking well. And I hate it. I hate what you've become.)_

"_-We are not family, not anymore. I have a family. You are nothing to me."_

_(Please forgive me. Bass is something to me; will always be something. Not you.)_

_And in that moment, he could almost see a little flickering shadow of his closest friend in those blue eyes._

_It's all be can do not to howl with grief._

_/_

* * *

After a series of hits and near misses and an exchange of fists, the elbow comes from nowhere and painfully collides with his already dazed and injured head. As Miles struggles to regain his footing, Monroe brings his sword down with alarming speed on him, who can only watch as his own weapon falls from his hand to the floor.

There is a second where their eyes connect, Monroe lets loose a bark of rough laughter and suddenly Miles is hurled towards the side of the tent, where he slams into a table and collapses to the ground. He's disorientated and in pain, trying to blink away his hazy vision. Blood trickles gently down his forehead. He coughs, grimacing as the action grates his bruised ribs. He gazes at the descending figure of Monroe.

"You know, it's hilarious. Your bro is pretty much screaming the house down in here right now," the bastard says conversationally, his voice sounding eerily gleeful. He taps his forehead, smiling. "It's giving me one hell of a headache."

(Stop it. Shut up. Shut the hell up. I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know-)

"He's trying to stop me from tearing you slowly apart, piece by piece," the voice drops to a dangerous and oddly seductive low whisper. "That's what I'm gonna do, you know. And I want to watch you die – you'll look into these baby blue eyes and think that your Bass is the one killing you. It's such a delicious thought." Monroe reaches forward and grabs the collars of Miles' shirt and lifts him off the ground as if he were as light as a feather from a broken bird. Miles coughs and tries to tear the hands off him but he's not as strong as Monroe now.

"Well, if that what turns you on man," he manages to spit out, trying to relax his breathing. The anger clouds Monroe's eyes again, and Miles allows himself a small fractured smile. Perhaps this might just work. He knows what to do now. Keep the ruse going –

"You think I'm kidding? You think I can't do it?" Monroe tightens his grip, his voice deepening to a threatening growl.

"Look, performance issues? It's something that can happen to a lot of guys," Miles says wryly, and as Monroe glares Miles uses the moment to allow one of his hands to drop from Monroe's grip and fall to his side. Slowly, carefully, dips it into his bag. Fingers close around a small bottle. Begins to slowly twist the cap.

Monroe spins him around and slams him against the desk. The bottles and glasses fall to the floor. Pages fly. Ink spills.

"Sass isn't going to save you, Matheson!"

"No," Miles says calmly, ignoring the throbbing of his head and the cries of complaint from his side. "But this will."

Monroe looks confused, "what-"

And then Miles, quick as a flash, pulls out the bottle and empties its contents over his captor. Who screams and releases him. Smoke stings Miles' eyes and there is a strong smell of charred flesh.

"You bastard!" Monroe yells, hands clawing at his face and neck. Miles smiles darkly, hands clenched over another bottle. Surveys the scene before him with a heavy heart.

(I'm sorry. So damn sorry-)

Monroe growls, dropping his hands from his face.

"Nothing like a bit of holy water from the friendly local priest to get a party started, right?" Miles comments, watching as those dead blue eyes flash to a burning, furious black.

"I'm gonna kill you, Matheson. I'll break your neck and tear out your heart, and then I'll rip up your bomber bitch and…" charred lips curl into a ruthless smile, "then I'll maybe take your niece out for a spin. Oh, the things I could make dear feisty little Charlie do-" Monroe does not get to finish his plotting as Miles snarls and again pours another bottle over the other man and throws such a series of strong, violent punches that he thinks that perhaps he is doing more damage to his wrists than to Monroe's body.

He kicks and punches while Monroe tries to claw out his eyes and soon they are both rolling on the ground. Miles can taste and smell blood and he knows he will end up with a wonderful variety of bruises and scars from this encounter – if he manages to live through it at all.

"Did you actually think you could do this?" the voice is raspy and breaks into a cough. Miles watches blood drip down that burnt neck and stain the uniformed shirt there. "Did you really think you could help yourself as well those poor bastards?"

Miles throws another punch, fist colliding with a sharp cheekbone. He swears he hears it break. But he doesn't want to hear anymore. He cannot hear anymore. He has to keep himself distanced and cut off because he will become a wreck if he has to hear anymore. It's enough that he has to look at this poisoned and twisted thing wearing the face of his best friend and brother. He jabs at the thing's ribcage, listening with a sort of gruesome satisfaction as he hears it cry out in pain.

"You think you're indestructible, right? I'm gonna prove you wrong," Miles hisses furiously. Swallows away that lump that catches in his throat.

(Maybe he hates this thing so much because all it has done this entire time is speak the truth. The painful, searing truth. Perhaps Miles hates the fact that it knows what his intentions had been. That he had volunteered to go to Philly and battle his way into the lion's den to kill in the hopes of saving.)

The demon chuckles and coughs, lashing out at Miles who gets a punch to the jaw and a kick to his legs. Monroe struggles to pick himself up, but Miles forces him back down on the ground again. They're both covered in blood and sweat and water and both gasp for air.

"Really? You're gonna kill me?" the demon coughs, blood trickling from his cut lip. It peers at him blearily – at least, that what Miles believes it to be doing. It's quite hard to tell when the eyes are pure black – "You know that I'm pretty much the only thing keeping your bro in one piece? I'm his own brand of superglue," it chuckles at its own joke and Miles feels faintly ill, "getting rid of me would be signing his death warrant. You game for that, Matheson?"

Miles grips Monroe's neck, staring into those cold dark eyes. Thinks rapidly. "The only thing I want is you dead. You're a murderer. A tyrant. A slave trader. You have to die-"

"Oh yes, great speech," the demon says in exasperation, "but you haven't answered my question-" A strong punch.

"Bass would rather be dead than have you use him as a puppet anymore." Miles interjects. Heart breaks because it's the truth. Monroe smiles manically at the words.

"Oh well, guess you're right," he chirps, eyes sparkling. A giggles bursts forth and he lashes out again, catching Miles off guard and hurling him to the side. Monroe staggers to his feet –

'_I am not drunk, Matheson.' Determined and slurred. Places hands on hips. 'Just look - I'm the friggin' prima donna ballerina of walking!' A step forward, then a lurch to the side where he crashes into the fence. _

_Miles bites back a laugh and instead rolls his eyes._

'_Oh god, I need to get you home.' _

_A small voice calls from the pavement._

'_Miles. Miles. Miles.'_

'_What?' he sighs, walking over to his drunken mess of a best friend and trying to untangle his legs and arms._

'_I hate to say this, but you're right. I might just be drunk.'_

'_Uh huh. Come on Bass, let's get your ass home.' A weary sigh that masks a chuckle._

_A jumble of arms later Bass has his head resting on Miles' shoulder as the exasperated man walks him to the car._

'_Man, I love you.' _

'_I'm easily the tenth person you've said that to tonight. But thanks, anyway.' –_

And grips the edge of the desk as support. Miles blinks away blood and double vision and pulls himself upright.

"You want to save him now, well it's too late. Should have done it earlier," Monroe says in a sing song voice, feeling around for his second sword. Miles wishes he had brought his second weapon as well, but he needed the room for the bag. He couldn't have risked breaking the bottles. He delves a hand in and gropes around for the third and final bottle of holy water, watching as Monroe draws his blade.

"Do you lot actually practice the whole mad psycho thing or does it comes naturally to you?" Miles snaps in frustration, slowly taking a step forwards. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders how long he has been here already. How long he has left. Wonders how the rest of the group are doing. If Nora's hastily built bunch of explosives have been hidden yet, whether their fuses have been lit already.

The demon shrugs his shoulders and limps ahead. "Well, crazy is as crazy does. You want to survive in Hell, you kill and crawl through blood and mud and fear. Then you go topside and you get to have a fashion parade in all these little bodies. Pity they break so easily. You're like crappy plastic toys, you know." A hand dragged across the bleeding and bruised face. Spits out a tooth.

"Go back to hell you son of a bitch," Miles mutters, and the demon smiles. Eyes flicker from black to blue in a second.

"Oh, no. See, I like it here. It's such fun. But, how about I compromise-"

Miles throws half of the holy water into Monroe's face again. The demon swears and chokes and sputters, throwing a ferocious glare at the hunter.

"That's not a very nice thing to do."

"I'm not a very nice person."

"Could have fooled me," the demon spits out water and blood and idly twirls the sword in his hands. "Eugh, I'm bored now. Fine," he breaks off to cough again and Miles can hear a distinct moan of pain. "You win this round."

Miles starts, feeling confused and uneasy. Ignores the throbbing in his ribs and burning pain around his head. Breathes deeply. This seems too easy. This can't be right. What's going on? What stunt is he trying to pull?

"I… win?" he queries, tilting his head to one side. He refuses to loosen his grip on the remainder of the holy water.

The demon chuckles and then clutches his ribs. "Yeah, there you have it. Game over." He stares, and Miles' feeling of unease increases as he watches the demon's eyes flash back to burning black once more.

(Something isn't right here -)

He's about to speak, about to attack – about to doing something, anyway, when the demon suddenly laughs and stabs himself with his own sword.

It is quite ironic that time, which Miles had long since disregarded and forgotten about, seems to burst back into focus. It's both slow and fast and Miles' heart beats in a desperate rhythm to it.

He drops everything – bag falls to the floor, bottle smashes, water seeps – and is suddenly at the side of the slowly sinking demon. Makes it just in time to grab its shirt collar as it falls to its knees.

"What have you…What have you done?" he gasps, a tone of anger and pain burning his throat. Monroe laughs and coughs, eyes flashing and side bleeding.

"Don't look so surprised, you got your wish. Your bro isn't going to be a puppet anymore. No fun in playing with the dead. See you around, big boy." A mocking wink, and then all Miles can do is watch as a thick cloud of black smoke pours from Monroe's mouth, black eyes fade to glorious blue and then silence falls heavily.

He releases his grip on Monroe's shirt and instead soon finds himself scooping the other man to his chest, ignoring the dampness of blood and the pain the movement and weight causes his ribs.

(Oh, God. Oh God no. Please no-)

He cannot stop looking. Wants to pull his gaze away and yet can't –

(it's a damn car crash-)

Miles is jolted from his strong, painful reverie when he hears a hoarse cough and –

"Miles?"

It's funny how quickly you can switch from relief to utter grief. Miles swallows and blinks, wondering where the sting behind his eyes came from. Because Bass' eyes are open and although there is a hazy sensation of agony there, he just looks so damn happy to see him. He speaks in that drawl with the same fucking smirk that the demon had mutilated and Miles wants to sob because _it's Bass_. Bass is smiling through bloody lips because he is free and it is Miles who is beside him.

"Hey," he murmurs, for if he were to speak any louder he fears his voice would shatter. Bass coughs again and Miles can hear him moan in pain, "hey, don't move around, okay? I'll get you out of here. It'll be okay." Swallows again and grips the man just that bit tighter. It's like a damn Hollywood movie. The villain has been defeated, he is the hero. And he is now holding the broken body of his oldest and closest friend in his arms and… And he doesn't know how long he has left for this. He finally has Bass back, but it won't be for long, he knows. He tries to ignore the fact, but it's pointless to do so. So he attempts a feeble smile as he sees Bass stare weakly up at him.

"I'm sorry, Miles. This is all my fault-"

"Shut up, you idiot. Don't even think about this, okay? I don't care. It wasn't you. It's over now."

"You came back," Bass whispers slowly, as if in disbelief; Miles feels his breath hitch. "You came back for me."

"Yeah, Bass," he replies gently, stealing a look at the wound on his brother's side. It's dark red and wet and Miles closes his eyes and sighs for a moment. "I came back for you," he trails off. He can hear shouting in the background. Guns firing. Screaming. A ringing echo of an explosion. He no longer cares. Utterly weary and emotionally drained, he leans back against the desk and sighs again when he feels Bass relax against his chest.

"I could see everything; I ... I couldn't stop it," Bass chokes out, a painful shudder running through his battered body. "I couldn't fucking stop it and I killed so many people and they just looked at me and I-"

"Shh, Bass. Shhh. It's okay," Miles gruffly mutters, trying to block out the sound of pained breathing. "It's alright."

(No it isn't. Of course it fucking isn't. How can it be?)

"It hurts," his voice seems quieter now, and his eyes are dimmer. "Miles, it hurts." Mile doesn't want to dwell too deeply on the fact that it sounds as if Bass is begging for him to help him; to take the pain away.

"I know, brother. I know."

"Will you stay with me?" weak movement against his side; Bass is trying to twist his neck into the right angle to focus on his brother, "please? Miles, I don't want to die alone."

He's torn between snapping back that he isn't to be so stupid, of course he isn't dying, he's being a prissy little drama queen. But the other part of Miles just wants to break down and hold Bass tightly and apologise for everything. He wants to save him again; how many times has he done so in the past? But he cannot now. There is no time left to them. It's bitter and it hurts, but that's that.

"Please, Miles…" Bass pleads, a trickle of blood running from his lips.

"I'm not leaving you, Bass. I promise." As soon the words leave his mouth Bass seems to relax again, leans into his chest and his eyes close just a little. Miles wants to shake him and tell him to stop this, to please stop this and do you dare even think of leaving me, you asshole.

"I told you that you had me, remember?" he says in an attempt to keep Bass talking. Footsteps and shouts are drawing ever closer. Bass coughs and the action must really hurt him now for he moans again, clutching at Miles as a life line. Miles doesn't know if that is holy water or tears on his face. "I said that we had been brothers our whole lives – Bass, I meant it then. I mean it now. You are family. You have been. Always will." His voice breaks and his breath hitches. "Now stop this. You're gonna be fine. Don't do something stupid, Bass." The other man just damn smirks with bruised and bleeding lips. It's done slowly and in obvious pain.

"You always could talk me out of doing stupid shit," he mutters with a quiet, hoarse chuckle. Definitely confirmed tears.

"Yeah? Well listen to me now, you moron."

* * *

/

_Bass' mouth runs away with him – Miles is used to this. Combat situations and the adrenaline rush that comes with it causes his best friend to say the first thing that comes into his head. Miles leans against the barricade of rubble, trying to control his breathing. He refuses to reveal the pain he is in. Keeps his face blank. Let's Bass ramble. Attempt to listen to what he says. _

_Shouts in the distance and rounds of firing in the background. Miles winces and grits his teeth._

_(Don't let him know you're hurt, keep him distracted, let him talk)_

"…_we're running low; gonna have to ration." Bass chuckles, throwing a huge shit eating grin his way. Miles cannot help but smile back. This is one crazy situation that they're in. "Start using swords," Bass continues, sounding both amazed and utterly amused . "We'll be like pirates!" and the look he is wearing is priceless and gets Miles laughing along._

_They continue to laugh until there is a loud explosion nearby –too close for comfort –and both of them flinch and try to cover their ears. As the dust settles, Bass picks his head up with a frown, glancing behind him. Miles closes his eyes, fighting waves of nausea. He peels his hand from his side and stares at the thick mess of blood with a reserved expression. Bass happens to glance at him then. He soon catches sight of Miles' hand and the older man watches as Bass' face drops._

_He tries to steady his shaking hand. Bass seems transfixed at the sight._

"_Bass, you gotta go," Miles says calmly, but firmly. He is most likely going to bleed to death huddled behind this mound of rubble. Half of their men are around them, the rest ready for the order to come forward. Hell knows how many are already injured or dead, or out of ammo. Bass needs – and he must be made to see this – to get the guys together and lead them forward. Miles sure as hell cannot._

_Bass stares at his brother, eyes wide. "Forget it." _

_Miles fights the urge to roll his eyes – or reach out and throttle the other man in frustration. "Look at me! Someone has to lead the men-"_

"_I don't care about the men," Bass says hoarsely, with a shake of the head._

_(Oh no you don't. We are not doing this now.)_

_Miles glares, "don't argue with me," he tries to sound sharp, but he can see the worry and distress in the other man's eyes and it gets to him. He falls silent and they simply stare at each other. Bass swallows. There is another explosion, further away this time. _

"_All the years, all the times I was in trouble you never left my side, you never ran," Bass pauses, as if to let the full weight of his words sink in –_

'_Give me the gun before you do something stupid'-_

_He breathes heavily, and they both flinch as a loud gunshot rings in their ears. "If you're dying, I'm dying with you." There is such an air of determination and finality and damn it to hell, Bass, because there is love in there too. _

_They stare at each other in silence, as people shout in the distant and guns fire._

_/_

* * *

"Miles?"

"Yeah?" Miles looks down at the broken bundle in his arms and swallows.

"'M… 'M cold," Bass murmurs, his voice a little weaker and his skin paler. Miles wonders how much damage he caused his best friend's body to endure during the earlier fight. He hopes – how he hopes – that the pain that the other man is in is not due to him. Hell, he has put Bass through enough shit. He cannot bear to think that he has caused this, or at least partly caused it.

His eyes are dimming, Miles realises with a start. His own sharp eyes are burning.

(No. No, Bass. Don't you dare, you asshole-)

"I know," Miles whispers back, feeling as if he was attending a funeral already. He places a hand under Bass' head to support him. He can feel the faint beat of his best friend's pulse at his fingertips.

He longs to shout and swear, to rant and to curse; utterly oblivious to the noise and death outside of this small vicinity. But instead of railing against this, he instead carefully begins to take off his jacket and gently drapes it over his best friend. He whispers instead of shouts. He stays still and does not leap to his feet to kick the desk, or tear at the abandoned maps and papers.

"I know," he says again, but this is addressed to himself. He knew how this would end. He had just hoped, hoped so damn much, that for once he could fix something. Save someone in the way that Charlie believes him to be constantly capable of.

Bass sighs before a thick shudder runs through his frame. He coughs, a painful gasp drawn from his lips.

"Hurts," he moans, and Miles instinctively tightens his grip on the man.

"It's alright, Bass. I got you," his attempts at forming a weak smile are dashed when he sees the clear distress written on the features of his best friend.

"It hurts-" Bass sobs, and Miles can feel the other man weakly lash out against the pain. His body is shivering and cold.

"Hey, hey," he says, gently at first, and then more firmly. "Hey, shhh. Shhh. It's okay. I got you."

"You… came back."

"Of course I did." Miles doesn't mind saying this again. He is simply glad that he has been given an opportunity to say those words. 'Of course I did' – he wants Bass to know that he would always have come back. They're family. Brothers. That bond can never be broken. Not fully.

"Please don't go again," Bass whispers as he rests his head back against Miles' chest. "Stay." His eyes are flickering, Miles sees. Flickering and dimming and they will soon close and not open again. The thought is painful, so painful. The older man swallows, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable lump in his throat. Blinks fiercely.

"Sorry, but it looks like I'm staying," Miles says dryly, which earns him a faint chuckle. "Not getting rid of me that easily." He watches as Bass' lips move and he has to lean in a bit to fully make out the words.

"Do you think… I'll see them?"

Miles has to pause for a moment to steady himself. He swallows again and looks his brother in the eye. "Sure. Sure you will," he says with a broken voice and obviously they are the right, magic words for Bass smiles slowly and painfully. Blood trickles from his mouth. Miles' feels blood slowly ooze along his own forehead. He is momentarily confused because he had forgotten about his own injuries. He quickly dismisses that from his mind, however. It's not important. Not now.

(How long do I have? Oh God. How long do I have? Not enough. I have known this man my whole life and he has always been there and soon he won't be anymore and oh, God, what am I going to do?)

"'M… 'M sorry," Bass mutters, his eyes standing out against the paleness of his skin.

"Shut up already; we've been over this," Miles tries to be snarky, but his own voice drops and breaks as he says, "Don't go, Bass. Please."

(I've only just got you back. Don't go.)

(I need you, Bass. I have Charlie and Rachel and Nora; I'll love and care for them and protect them but they are not you and I need you. Please don't go.)

He doesn't know how to even begin to form his thoughts into words. Doesn't know whether or not to say his thoughts aloud. Fearful in case he does. Worried in case he does not.

"What am I without you?" he asks as Bass, although clearly fighting against it; starts to close his eyes. He sighs gently and Miles shakes him firmly. He knows he should not but damn it, he does it anyway. "Damn it, Bass – don't go!"

"_Okay, alright. Let me pack."_

"_Wha-what?"_

"_I'm coming with you."_

"_No. Bass. You're not. I'm not dragging you into this."_

"_My family. My problem."_

"_You're my family. That makes it my problem."_

He feels his best friend's bruised and broken body go limp and he just knows, even without looking, that his eyes will be closed and he'll not be breathing and fuck it, his best friend has just died in his arms and is gone. And there is nothing he can do about it.

Numb. He is utterly numb.

So he breathes and swallows and mutters under his breath about how it's okay, it's alright. And he stares at the face of his brother and just sits there on the ground with his back against this stupid desk with his arms full of Bass and blood.

"I'm sorry," he says to the empty room, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't raise a hand to rub at his eyes. That would mean having to let go of Bass, and he isn't sure he can do that yet.

* * *

_Nora is biting her lip anxiously, watching as Charlie paces up and down the rocky path._

"_Where is he?" the younger woman asks, rounding on Nora. Her voice is strained with worry. "It's been too long. He was supposed to get back over an hour ago!" She throws her hands out, as if begging for an answer, or a sign. Perhaps both. Mostly likely for more._

_Nora swallows and fights to keep her face calm and collected. Heaven knows her thoughts are not. She has a sinking feeling that something horrible has happened, but knows she needs to keep strong and determined for Charlie. The poor girl has suffered enough. Has seen enough death and blood and felt more fear in her short life than what could be deemed possible. Nora knows she looks up to her sarcastic, prickly and yet deeply protective and caring uncle. Charlie needs him in her life. If Miles did not return… Nora breathes in deeply and slowly. She would always watch over Charlie – she has grown fond of the younger woman, she is like a sister to her now – but would it be enough? She could never replace Miles. No one could._

_Miles knew the risk he was taking going out there, Nora thinks. He was prepared and being the damn stubborn headstrong man that he was – that Nora loves, yet will not say aloud – would heed neither her nor Charlie's concerns. Nora knows that people don't always come back. But to think of Miles not returning…. It's a strange and foreign thought. But then again, death comes to them all in the end. There will always be a time when even the snarky, brave and wonderful characters do not come back._

"_Charlie," she starts, her voice calm and soothing, "you know it was chaotic there. People are still coming back, look," she gestures to the small band walking past them, "time doesn't matter."_

"_But he said he would be back by now," Charlie retorts, holding her head in such Matheson fashion that Nora has a faint urge to smile, "he told me he would be back by now." The tremor in her voice is not as carefully disguised as before and not for the first time Nora is made to realise how young Charlie really is. How quickly she has had to grow up and adapt and fight for her survival in this world._

"_I know," she murmurs, watching as Charlie blinks fiercely. "Charlie, I know. But…" she trails off, uncertain as to actually continue. _

"_You think he's dead right?" the younger girl snaps, folding her arms. "Well, he's not. I know he's not. I know it." Breaks off, biting her lip. "He promised he would be back. He can't leave me…" he voice drops to a low whisper and yet Nora still picks up on it._

_Nora closes her mouth, and just nods. Smiles gently. "Of course. He'll be here soon." _

_Charlie turns her back on the older woman and resumes her mixture of pacing and staring. Tries to ignore her thudding heart._

"_Come on, Miles," she mutters, staring ahead. "Come on. Just turn up. Please. Please just walk up that damn path and be in one piece, that's all I'm asking for."_

_Another handful of minutes pass and Nora has shaken her head at a handful of people who have walked past, throwing her questioning looks about Charlie. _

"_Charlie," she says, breaking the silent, "perhaps you should go and rest up for a bit? You've been on your feet all day-"_

"_No," the younger woman rounds on her, before pausing. "Sorry, Nora, it's just… I'm staying here. I'm not going in until he's back." Turns around again. Nora wants to smile – she is just as stubborn as her uncle – but she sighs instead for she knows that as Charlie is as stubborn as Miles, she means what she says. So if Miles does not return…. _

_Nora shakes her head at her own thoughts. Let's not think that now, not yet._

_And then she is distracted when Charlie gasps and starts running._

"_What?" the words die on her bitten lips as she looks up, because she can make out a man on a horse coming towards them. "Damn the asshole."__She wants to laugh and cry and instead settles for breaking into a brisk walk._

"_Miles!" Charlie bursts out, a bright smile on her pale face. Nora laughs in pure relief._

_It's when she's a few feet away that she realises something isn't right from only a look at Miles. He's pale and bloody and bruised, but it's his eyes that scare her. That and he appears to have a carefully wrapped bundle of some sort pressed against his chest. The man seems totally oblivious to where he is. But he must feel her gaze on him for spares her a glance and she can feel her breath catch in her throat._

"_Charlie," she says warningly, but the younger woman takes no notice and just breaks into a torrent of words._

"_You're back! You came back!" she smiles, her eyes still full of tears. She runs over to the horse and stares up at her uncle. "I was so worried!" Charlie soon stops, for Miles has not responded and instead is staring at her as if she was speaking mandarin. She looks confused and more than a little hurt. _

"_Miles, what happened?" Nora says, quickly interjecting. It's obvious, so blindingly obvious, that he is not himself. He looks drained and… Hollow. Now that she is up close, a mere arm span away from his hands, she can see the dead look in his eyes and the dried blood on his forehead. His hands are caked in dirt and more blood. _

"_Jesus," she mutters, "Miles?" He looks at her and my god this cannot be him for he is gritting his teeth is such obvious pain. Nora begins to worry – is he seriously injured? She had just assumed that because he was riding towards them and still upright he was okay, but what if he is dying and they're just standing there like fools?_

"_It's not my blood," he says gruffly, causing both of them to start. "Not all of it, anyway." He too stares at his hands, seemingly transfixed at the sight._

"_Are you hurt?" Charlie asks, worry clearly displayed on her features. Miles shakes his head slowly and looks set to dismount._

"_I'm fine-"_

"_Your head is bleeding and you're holding your side, you're obviously in pain-"_

"_I said I'm fine, Charlie. Now shut up," Miles barks at her. Nora swallows. She knows that face. She knows that voice. Miles is trying to hide pain and hurt behind his sharp words and again she wonders what the hell has happened to him. Sparing Charlie a quick glance, she can see that thankfully she hasn't taken his words to heart._

_Miles breathes deeply, fighting the urge to cry out as the action grates his bruised ribs and chest. Drags a hand through hair that is sticky with blood and sweat. Tightens his grip on the wrapped bundle._

_(One step at a time. I can do this.)_

_(I knew how this would work. I knew how it would end. I didn't know how much it would hurt.)_

_He looks at the worried, tearstained face of his feisty little niece and the concerned look being thrown at him from the beautiful Nora. He must look like a damn mess. He sighs and begins to slowly dismount. Charlie steps forward to help him, but one dark glare sends her away. Nora knows him too well to even try, but she does step closer. _

"_Miles, what-" he hears Nora breath in sharply, "my God." She is torn between yelling at Charlie not to look, to tear her own gaze away but she also just has to keep staring because she cannot believe what she is seeing. "Jesus," she hisses again through clenched teeth. Miles looks at her and she can damn well feel the pain and hurt and grief from him._

"_Is that," Charlie's eyes widen, "is that Monroe? You killed him?" Her voice is suspended in disbelief. Miles just looks at her._

"_No shit, Charlie," and his voice is hoarse and so tired. He's standing by the horse now, gently patting its flank to keep it calm and still. _

"_You brought his body back?" Charlie presses on, curious and confused and she just can't seem to tear her eyes off the bloody and broken body of the man who had stalked her family hand in hand with Death. "Why?"_

"_Charlie," Nora hisses at her, watching as Miles slowly closes his eyes and then opens them. Begins to remove the body from the horse and holds it gently in his arms. "Stop it."_

"_I don't-"_

"_Shut the hell up," Miles cuts across her sharply and Nora swallows because Miles seems to have tightened his hold on the body is such a protective fashion. Charlie, however, displaying her Matheson streak in true style cannot stop while she is ahead._

"_He was responsible for my dad's death! And Danny! I get that you were friends once, Miles, but he killed people! Why the hell did you bring him back here and not just leave him to rot?"_

_Nora wants to walk over and slap a hand over the younger woman's mouth because she cannot seem to see how much she is hurting her uncle._

_Miles hears what his niece is saying and lets the words wash over them. He knows what has happened to her; what she has had to cope with. He wants to care for her and keep her save, not just because Ben would have wanted him to but because he actually wants to. However, it is times like this that prove to him how little they know each other; how short of a duration they have actually been in each other's company. So he swallows and fights the urge to look at the body in his arms. _

_(He had constantly checked his friend over on the journey here in the faint and desperate hope that he has simply passed out; that he was only sleeping. That he would wake up and make some smartass comment about how Brokeback Mountain the whole situation was on the damn horse. Miles had chuckled to himself as he rode, because he could have sworn he had heard Bass say those words complete with his smirk. But he realised, upon looking at the pale and bruised face that it was only his thoughts and own longing that had said that.)_

"_Charlie, you've lived through some crap, I get that," he says; to his own ears his voice just sounds tired and flat, "but you're alive and well and fighting. I lost a brother and a nephew as well because of this," he nods his head in the direction of the body in his arms. "But you know what? All of that? It wasn't Bass." He see her raise an eyebrow at his use of the name. "That wasn't him burning houses and ordering the militia to roam the land. There was a fucking demon in him the whole damn time. Do you get that?" he asks her directly, voice laced with anger and sorrow. "That wasn't my best friend."_

"_But I-" Miles does not let her finish; will not let her finish because he needs to continue speaking. All the thoughts he had on the journey back have festered and have now become an open, bleeding sore._

"_I promised you I would kill him, do you remember?" she nods mutely, "well here you go. He's dead. I walked to Philly and the twisted, evil thing in my best friend's body decides to kill him for me. He died in my arms and I couldn't do a thing about it. So yeah, Charlie," he breathes, a ragged and harsh gasp, swallowing back that lump in his throat which doesn't seem to want to leave, "Yeah, I brought him back with me, because I sure as hell wasn't leaving his body there. That I could still do for him, because God knows I never did much to help him when he was still alive."_

_He's standing there with his arms full of Bass and damn it to hell he is shaking and the next thing he knows is that Nora, beautiful, calm Nora is at his side and says gently to Charlie, "Go inside, give him a minute." She says that because she knows. She was there, back in the days of Bass and Miles, generals extraordinaire, as they tried to keep control of a Republic plagued with demons and threatened with death and destruction. She knows how they were brothers in all but blood. Knows that they would have died for each other without a thought. So she is only too aware that he is breaking and bleeding inside at this moment. She places a small, firm hand on his arm; gently holds him upright. He wasn't even aware that he had been in danger of falling. He doesn't know if he is aware of anything anymore._

"_It's okay, Miles, it's alright," she murmurs and although he longs to and indeed tries to push her away and snap at her to leave him alone; stop being dramatic, he's fine, he finds himself leaning into her touch. "God, I'm sorry." Her breath is cool on his cheek._

"_He died in my arms, Nora. Christ almighty, he just bled out and yet he still was smiling because I had come back for him," the words clog in his throat. His voice is breaking like shattered glass and he can't control it anymore. Nora's hand is steady on his arm._

"_Miles," she whispers, "Miles, you're gonna have to put him down." She glances at the body, remembering the times she had seen Monroe laughing with Miles, or drinking or fighting or… He had just seemed so real and… He was like Miles, she realises. Someone you believed would just always be there. People will celebrate when they hear of this; when they hear that he was dead and gone and not an immortal monster. _

_Nora feels a pain in her chest. God knows, Monroe and his soldiers had stalked them all, but for a long time it hadn't been Bass in that body calling the shots. She doesn't even know where to begin with how Miles must feel. He must have had even a faint hope that he could bring Bass back with him alive. She can feel his breath hitch beside her. Sees the trial of dried blood on his forehead and neck. God Miles, she thinks. What are we going to do with you?_

"_I've lost him," he says, sounding dazed and broken. "Nora, I've lost him."_

"_I know, I know."_

"_I thought I could get him back and I nearly did but I fucking lost him for good."_

_She ends up wrapping an arm around his back. His frame shakes with a lone shudder._

"_I know," she says, but how the hell is she to know? How can she possibly hope to understand this? "I know," she repeats, but in truth she does not. He shudders again._

"_Damn him to hell," Miles mutters through gritted teeth and Nora watche tear drips from a bruised eye. Seeing Miles cry does not feel right; she feels as if she is intruding into a private, personal moment. But she cannot leave him, not now. "I couldn't save him. I couldn't save him." Another tear falls. And then another. _

_She says nothing, just leans her head against his shoulder. Her hair is so soft against his neck._

"_What do I do now?" his voice is low and so quiet she has to strain to hear him. She couldn't reply, even if she knew the answer._

_Miles longs to howl in grief. Only the thought of Nora standing by his side watching him prevents that from happening. He is only now accepting the full weight of what has happened. He feels as if the wind has been knocked violently from his lungs and he has fallen to the ground with a thud. He looks down at the face of his dead best friend. Bass seems so peaceful. It's Miles who feels torn and shredded and at a complete and utter loss._

_(Oh God, Bass. God, I'm sorry.)_

_(What am I going to do without you? What am I without you?)_

_He swallows, because he doesn't know what the answer is. He brushes a hand down the side of his best friend's face, feeling sticky blood and bits of dirt. He is cold, so cold. _

"_Damn you, Bass," he whispers. He swears he can hear a chuckle in reply. His throat constricts._

_So he sobs, because all he wants is for his best friend to open his eyes and laugh at him and tease him relentlessly about being soft and mopey. That's all he wants. Bass._

_But Bass is no longer there._

* * *

**fin**

**Well, there we have it. Take five, people. That's a wrap.  
Again, many thanks for reading! Like it or loath it, feel free to leave a review or drop me a line. Constructive criticism is welcomed and greatly appreciated, as always.**


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